


drop me down to my knees

by sky_somedays



Category: Stranger Things RPF
Genre: Character Study, Flirting, M/M, Pre-Slash, Shirtlessness, cast party shenanigans, no porn despite the misleadingly slutty title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 17:50:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17606051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sky_somedays/pseuds/sky_somedays
Summary: It’s outrageous, Joe thinks, flipping through the stack of glossies. It’s outrageous how Dacre looks at the camera. It’s bedroom eyes dialed up to eleven. It’s too fucking much.





	drop me down to my knees

**Author's Note:**

> inspired almost entirely by the Duality(tm) of joe and dacre’s instas. there’s really no excuse for this but know that i am judging myself.
> 
> (i think this goes without saying, but i’ll say it anyway: this is based on their interview personas and social media presence. i don’t ship them irl.)
> 
> title from tigerblood by vistas

Charlie shows Joe Dacre’s Instagram before they even meet him.

“Look at this wanker,” Charlie laughs, scrolling through stylized picture after stylized picture. A series of QR codes. Rothko and Pollock. Architecture. Sultry black and white shots in New York, Tokyo, Toronto. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

Joe clucks. “No caption game. Who is this guy?”

“Thinks he’s the next Hemsworth,” Charlie says with a shrug. “I mean, I assume.”

Joe cocks his head and considers the picture Charlie paused on, the eyelashes and parted mouth. “Well to be fair, he has the face for it.”

Charlie just rolls his eyes.

 

/

 

Joe meets Dacre for the first time at a table read for season two.

He’s wearing a white shirt that only has the bottom two buttons buttoned and an expensive looking watch. He’s already sitting down when Joe ambles in, joking with Charlie and Natalia. Dacre stands as soon as he sees them. Like it’s a reflex; Joe blinks, knows he’s going on a face journey that he’s powerless to hide.

“Dacre Montgomery,” Dacre says, and he holds his hand out.

Natalia is the fastest to react, accepts the handshake with a smile. “Nice to meet you. I’m Natalia.”

“Big fan,” Dacre says, pivots so that his outstretched hand is pointed at Joe now. “Of all of you.”

Joe shakes his hand and tries to school his features into something slightly more professional. Dacre is wearing rings, three of them, and Joe’s sure they’re not ironic. “Sup, man. Joe.” Dacre has a thing for intense eye contact, apparently. Joe almost breathes a sigh of relief when he moves on to Charlie.

“You were right,” Joe mutters to Charlie when they’re all sitting, passing scripts around.

“Hm?”

“Wanker.” He only half-means it. He notices the way Dacre gives Charlie a script before he takes one himself, the way he asks Natalia questions and listens attentively.

Charlie snorts, flips to the first page. “Better hope you don’t have a lot of scenes with him.”

 

/

 

The thing is, Dacre takes himself very seriously. Too seriously. The kind of serious that Joe finds hilarious, just wants to puncture slightly with jokes and pokes and Power Rangers references. He does at first, gentle mocking that Dacre accepts but rarely returns.

They both have to learn how to play basketball. Joe knows next to nothing but shows up ready to have a good time anyway. When he gets to the gym they’re using, Dacre is already there, practicing layups. There’s no one else around.

“It was ten, right?” Joe calls, squeaking across the floor towards Dacre. “Did I get it wrong?”

“Nah, mate. I just got here early.” Dacre is shirtless. He tosses the ball to Joe. “I don’t know anything about basketball so I wanted to get a head start.”

“Well I don’t know anything either, so you’re gonna show me up.” Joe tosses the ball back, drops his bag next to Dacre’s off to the side. Dacre’s bag looks expensive, leather. Joe brought his old gym bag from college and almost laughs at the contrast.

“We can practice,” Dacre says, serious as ever, when Joe turns back to him. “We need to be able to move together, work off each other.”

“Yeah, yeah, man, I’m sure we’ll work on that when Bo gets here.” Joe rolls his neck. “I’m gonna stretch it out.”

Dacre just nods, goes back to his layups. He’s pretty bad, Joe is surprised (and a little delighted) to discover, but he doesn’t stop until Bo arrives.

 

/

 

Joe likes to think he’s good at reading people but he finds Dacre pretty impossible. He’s always  _working_  – working out, poring over scripts, chatting makeup and costume, smoking. He smokes a lot more than Joe thinks is necessary, holding the cigarette at different angles. He smokes between takes, looking at himself in the nearest possible reflection like he’s going to be graded.

“What do you think?” Joe asks Charlie, watching Dacre fuss with his shirt and hair in the mirror of the costume trailer. He nods in his direction. 

Charlie looks up from his phone, frowning. “About what?”

“Hemsworth. What do you think?”

“I think you’re being a nosy twat.”

Joe raises his hands. “I’ll cop to that. But still.”

“I think he’s alright. Trying too hard, maybe.”

Joe taps at his chin. Dacre is turning from side to side in the mirror, adjusting the waistband of his jeans. “ _Maybe_?”

“He’s getting in character. When you look like him, you’re bound to be a bit vain.”

Joe nods because that’s certainly true. He catches Charlie giving him a knowing look. “Shut up.”

“Didn’t say anything,” Charlie shrugs, but he’s smirking.

 

/

 

They all do a lot of photo shoots. Joe likes them fine, likes goofing around in front of the camera, likes how good he looks when shot by a professional and dressed in cool stuff. He likes how David will make a big deal every time he books another one. “Isn’t your ego big enough?” he’ll lament loudly, until Joe is grinning and red in the face. Joe thinks that maybe he’ll get used to all the validation eventually, but not yet. 

But Dacre’s photo shoots are different. He takes them as seriously as he takes everything else, looks up the photographer’s previous work, asks ahead of time if there’s a theme, what the artistic vision is. It borders on funny, the way that everything about Dacre does. When Dacre is around Joe is constantly on the cusp of a laugh.

Dacre sometimes brings pictures back with him. Joe has seen them, sitting on his desk in his hotel room. Curiosity overcomes him on one occasion, waiting around for Dacre to finish his hair so they can meet up with the others. The pictures are just sitting there. Daring him.It’s outrageous, Joe thinks, flipping through the stack of glossies. It’s outrageous how Dacre looks at the camera. It’s bedroom eyes dialed up to eleven. It’s too fucking much.

He makes sure he puts them back before Dacre can see him looking.

 

/

 

They’re at a cast and crew party.

They always have parties, they all enjoy each other’s company too much not to. There’s always the party and then the after-party, for when the kids have been picked up amidst a chorus of complaints, after at least one of them is caught trying to sneak a drink.

Joe never cared much for the after-parties in season one, was content to hang out with Natalia and Charlie, or David, or the kids, play video games in someone’s hotel room. But now – now Joe wouldn’t miss them. Wouldn’t miss the way Dacre’s laugh gets louder and louder the more he drinks, the way he gets touchier and touchier. He normally keeps a careful distance from others that Joe respects but doesn’t understand. Always leaving an extra inch of room between them when they’re being interviewed, body bowed slightly away.

But when Dacre is drunk whatever cautiousness he normally has is gone. He greets Joe touch-first, hand on his shoulder, kneeing him in the back of the thigh when Joe isn’t looking, hip-checking him out of the way when Joe is blocking access to the drinks table. He touches Joe’s face when Joe says something funny, pats his cheek. Pushes his jaw with his knuckles. Flicks hair out of Joe’s eyes. Joe’s only human; he loves it. Loves it when Dacre drops an arm around Joe’s shoulders and leaves it there for half an hour, chatting to people with Dacre’s hand tapping out rhythms against his arm. Nervous energy, maybe. Joe doesn’t have a great read on Dacre, yet, but he thinks he understands better in those moments.

This party in particular is halfway through filming and is being thrown for no discernible reason. The kids are long gone. Everyone who is left is hanging out in a booked room in the hotel. Someone brought a karaoke machine and there’s a pretty serious face off happening between heads of departments. If Joe was a betting man he’d put all his money on Amy; her belting game is no joke.

“Amy’s already won,” Dacre announces, dropping onto the couch where Joe is lounging. He throws his legs wide, knocks their feet together. Then, belatedly: “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Joe says easily. He glances over to where Amy is killing a Dua Lipa song. “You read my mind. Everyone should just pack up and go home.”

“You tapping out, old man?”

“Two years,” Joe says. “I am  _two_  years older than you. Oh my god.”

Dacre grins, wide and brilliant, and plucks the beer bottle out of Joe’s hand. “Pabst? Really?” he takes a swig, leans back way further than necessary. Joe doesn’t  _not_  look at Dacre’s Adam’s apple, but he also doesn’t stare, which he’s pretty proud of.

“I like to lean into the stereotype,” he says, as Dacre wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “All I drink is PBR and La Croix.” The joke doesn’t even really make sense but Dacre laughs anyway, his eyes crinkled up and sparkling. Joe lets himself slide down the couch so that he’s leaning on Dacre’s shoulder, swipes the bottle back. “What are  _you_  drinking?”

“I did a few tequila shots.” Dacre is definitely drunk, Joe can tell by the way he leans into Joe’s weight, the way his foot is hooked under Joe’s ankle. “Double shots. Chester’s a tequila man.”

They’re close and pressing closer. Joe can see each of Dacre’s eyelashes, the pores of his nose, the laugh lines around his mouth. They’re close enough that someone might think something’s going on. Joe doesn’t care, but suspects Dacre might. He pulls back.

“I’m gonna crash,” he says. Smacks Dacre’s knee. “Night, buddy.”

“Yeah.” Dacre watches as Joe levers himself up, pats down his pockets. “See you, mate.”

Joe can feel Dacre’s eyes on him all the way across the room. A warm weight. He carries that weight in his veins all the way back to his hotel room, fumbling with the key card at the last moment, all pretense of calm gone.

But hey, if he jacks it the moment the door is shut behind him, thoughts full of Dacre’s eyes and laugh and his fingers heavy on Joe’s shoulder, nobody needs to know.

 

/

 

The season two premier is surreal. Joe’s whole life is surreal, now.

“I can’t believe Charlie is missing this,” Joe says to Natalia as they leave the red carpet, the camera flashes and noise behind them. “What a dick.”

Natalia’s serene for-camera expression tightens. “Yeah, I was thinking something similar.”

“Ah, sorry, Nat.” Joe gives her a one-armed hug, careful not to mess up her dress. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

After the premier there’s a party, of course. The kids are there at first, and Joe spends some time joshing around with Gaten and Finn. He takes the beer out of Sadie’s hand himself, ignoring the shouts of  _but Momma Steve, pleaseeeee_ , and pretending the whole time not to love it. He dances with Winona. There are definitely videos going on Snapchat, he can tell from the maniacal laughter in the corner. He tries to coax Natalia into dancing for a little while before she eventually retreats, phone pressed to her ear.

The kids are all picked up around 1am, shouting goodbyes and doling out hyperactive hugs. Joe manages to muss up Gaten’s hair one last time and avoids the inevitable retribution by stepping behind David. “You’re dead, Keery!” Gaten howls. “Just you wait!”

And just like that, Dacre appears. Joe turns to find him standing there like he’s been there all along, which – maybe. Joe’s been distracted.

“Everything okay with Natalia?” Dacre asks, clapping Joe on the shoulder. He’s holding a bourbon, Joe thinks, like he’s about to attend a gentleman’s club or something. Joe’s drunk and he knows Dacre looks funny, because he always does, but he can’t pinpoint exactly why.

“She’s pissed Charlie isn’t here.” Joe takes a pull on his beer. “I don’t blame her. What a dummy.”

“Mm.” Dacre drinks some bourbon, taps a finger against the glass. “This is great. You sure you’re just drinking beer?”

Joe toasts the air with his bottle. “Reminds me of home. Also: I’m not picky.”

“Can’t argue with the home part. You could afford to be pickier though, mate.”

Joe ignores the small fizzle that ‘mate’ in Dacre’s accent elicits. He bumps his beer against Dacre’s chest and then lets his hand hang there for a moment. “I noticed you were  _conspicuously_  absent from the dance floor earlier. What was that about?”

“I don’t dance.”

Joe snorts. “Okay, we both know  _that_ ’s a fucking lie. Bust out those moves, man. We’ve all seen the video.”

“Don’t have my G-string on me,” Dacre says.

“Not that video – the other one.” Joe mimes pulling a cap low on his forehead and attempts a body roll.

Dacre colours. “Oh.”

“The internet never forgets,” Joe says. “The kids googled you the second we got your name, and uh, it came up.” He shuts up then, because he doesn’t need to explain why he saw the video, even though it really feels like he should. He drinks some more beer and refuses to feel weird.

Dacre just up and changes the subject. Joe respects that. “So people are going to a club after this,” he says, nodding over to the knot of crew members by the bar. He touches his finger to the underside of his nose. “I’ve been told there are party favours.” 

Joe really wants to text Charlie about it, but resists the urge. “Sure, probably.”

“You going?”

“I don’t know. Are you?”

Dacre shrugs.

“Do you  _want_  to go? There’s definitely going to be dancing. Coke-fueled dancing.”

“I did tell Sarah that I would.” Dacre says this like he made a blood pact.  _Too serious_.

“So that’s a no. You need an out. Are you very attached to this shirt?” Joe folds the edge of Dacre’s collar between his fingers. “I mean I know that you aren’t attached to  _any_  shirt, clearly, shirts aren’t your thing and that’s honestly understandable. But.”

“Not especially,” Dacre says, graciously ignoring Joe’s rambling. “Why?”

Joe takes the glass from Dacre, raises it significantly. “I feel a clumsy moment coming on.”

Dacre blinks at him. “You’re going to douse me in bourbon to save me from a social engagement?”

“Yes,” Joe says very seriously. “You’re  _welcome_. I wouldn’t do this for just anybody.”

“I’m flattered,” Dacre says. He sounds sincere. He bounces up and down on his heels like he’s pumping himself up, shakes out his arms. Joe thinks he’s trying to be funny, so he doesn’t bite back the laugh that’s already bubbling up. “Okay, hit me.”

“I’m not – I’m not gonna glass you in the face, or whatever you seem to think is happening. You can relax.” 

Dacre grins, all teeth, and does Billy’s totally unnecessary tongue thing. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Keery.”

Without any kind of ceremony, Joe splashes bourbon down the front of Dacre’s shirt. Dacre spreads his arms and frowns at him.

“That was so underwhelming.”

Joe abandons their drinks on a nearby table, starts steering Dacre towards the crew by the shoulder. “I promised an out, not an Oscar-worthy performance.” 

Joe spins the crew a fairly convincing yarn about them needing to go back to the hotel so Dacre can get changed. Someone begins to ask why they both need to go, but Joe just ups his volume, because  _that_  isn’t something he wants to examine right now, and in no time at all they are standing outside on the street waiting for someone to get them a cab. Easy.

“Love being kind of famous,” Joe says as they climb in. “It’s great.”

“Think you’re more than  _kind of_  famous.” Dacre is leaning back in his seat, one hand splayed on his leg, head inclined in Joe’s direction. “And it’s just gonna get better after this season.”

“You think babysitter Steve will be a hit?”

“Oh yeah. That protective thing? The girls’ll flock from all around.”

Joe laughs, because that’s the safest reaction. “They haven’t met Billy yet. You’re gonna get  _swarmed_. That mullet and pornstache combo? Killer.”

They’re at the hotel in no time, jostling each other in the elevator, catching glances and snorting. Joe’s wary of the keyed-up energy they’re both giving off, somewhere in the sensible and distant part of his brain, knows it’s probably a bad idea. Still: Joe’s having fun. Dacre seems to be having fun. It’s hard to worry when there’s so much fun to be had.

Dacre’s room is a few doors down from Joe’s. Identical inside except the layout is mirrored. All of Dacre’s stuff is put away tidily. Joe thinks about his own room, suitcase spewing clothes and charge cords and books all over the floor.

“Nice place you got here,” Joe says, parks himself on the foot of the bed and watches Dacre toe off his shoes.

Dacre nods like he’s taking it as a real compliment. “They were going for a Jacques Garcia vibe for sure. I mean it’s not the same, obviously, but the colour palette and the ceiling really give it away.” 

Joe’s attention evaporates because Dacre is unbuttoning his shirt as he talks. Joe keeps his eyes trained unwaveringly on Dacre’s face even as Dacre is pointing out room features, which isn’t great, but at least it’s not as obvious as it could be. Joe’s really trying not to be obvious. Dacre finally stops talking about the room and pitches the shirt across it instead. The bourbon stain reached his undershirt too, Joe is very pleased to discover.

“Oh my god,” Joe says, his head lolling back as he watches Dacre strip off his undershirt. “Shut up.”

Dacre shoots him a questioning look. “I didn’t say anything.”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Joe says, and he flops down onto the bed. He immediately struggles back up onto his elbows because he doesn’t want to miss Dacre shirtless. He’s drunk enough to admit it to himself. “Whatever.”

Dacre is watching him, grinning. “What?”

“Oh, like. Like  _look_  at you. Just shut the fuck up.” Joe waves a hand at Dacre’s whole deal. “Jesus.”

“I’m flattered,” Dacre says for the second time that night, and he manages to both leer and duck his head bashfully at the same time. “I mean, I know you’re always talking about my body in interviews, but I thought you were just being a good castmate.”

Joe stares at him. This is the closest they’ve had to real banter (he hears Charlie’s mocking voice in his head: ‘mad bants, bruv’). He’s so used to getting no rejoinder that he forgets to play along. “I. I don’t  _always_  talk about your body.” 

“‘Dude’s  _shredded_ ,’” Dacre says, in an unfairly accurate impression of Joe’s voice. “‘Dacre’s  _cut_ , man, he’s  _jacked_.’”

“Hey now,” Joe protests, laughing, “I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. If anyone else was ever asked about working with you they’d say the same thing.”

“Don’t think the Duffers have ever talked about my abs.” Dacre winks. Joe swoons and he’s definitely 85% kidding. 

“Well they should. Your abs are the star of the show.”

Dacre is standing in the middle of the room still holding his balled up undershirt. He’s made no move to find a clean one yet, and Joe’s not complaining, but it’s starting to get a little much. Joe’s only human.

“Oh yeah?” Dacre says, and he’s smirking now. “Are they that good?” 

“Mm-hm.” Joe can’t see the end of this path. He’s got a professionalism-alarm going off somewhere in his brain:  _get back to safety. Abort. Turn around_. But it’s distant and easy to ignore. “Fucking thirst trap, man.”

Dacre’s eyebrows shoot up. “Thirst – hm.” He hesitates a fraction of a second before he follows up with: “You thirsty, Joe?”

Joe is powerless to prevent the laugh that explodes out of him. “Fucking parched,” he says through the tears. “How’d you  _know_?”

They’re teetering right on the edge of something. The jokey tone is there, barely. Joe’s laughter is dying in his throat and it was just a shade too breathless anyway. He waits for Dacre to turn away. 

“I see you looking,” Dacre says instead, voice low. “Just so you know.”

Joe blinks at him. “Uh. Yeah, I was taught it’s polite to look at someone when you’re talking to ‘em.”

“I mean – other times.” There’s that nervousness. Dacre shifts from foot to foot, almost imperceptible. “I see you looking when there’s no reason for you to be.”

“You’re very – easy to look at.” It’s true, but it sounds really damning out loud. Joe runs a hand through his hair.

Dacre just looks at him. Intense eye contact. Dialed up to eleven. “Parched, huh?”

“We’re drunk.” Joe’s brain is a little muddled. “Drunk and-and we’re co-workers. And I’m not known for my good judgment when I’m  _not_  drunk and two feet away from the half-naked red Power Ranger, so – so. Should put a pin in it.” 

Dacre considers this, working the undershirt between his hands. Finally, he says: “Sensible. Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Silence as Dacre turns to the chest of drawers behind him, retrieves a henley. He pulls it over his head. Turns back and catches Joe watching him, because Joe was too slow to look away.

“Okay,” Joe says, takes a deep fortifying breath. “Okay. I’m gonna go.” He gets up, lets the room spin its way to upright. Dacre watches him cross to the door. Grasps the handle. Turns back once more, absorbs the sight of Dacre looking at him, barefoot, his hair beginning to buck its styling, a stray curl across his forehead. Bedroom eyes.

“Night, mate,” Dacre says. 

It takes all of his willpower, but Joe leaves.

 

/

 

The next morning, muggy and hungover, the top notification on Joe’s phone reads:  _dacremontgomery posted for the first time in a while_. Rubbing at his eyes, he swipes into his phone. It’s a picture of the ruined shirt, buttoned carefully onto a coat hanger, hooked on the back of a door. There’s a shadow across it – Dacre, backlit by the morning sun. The caption reads:  _about last night_. It’s the cheesiest thing Dacre’s ever posted, and that’s saying something.

Joe couldn’t keep the grin off his face if he tried.


End file.
